


Say a Prayer

by akasakasan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Homeless, Angst, Homelessness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:03:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akasakasan/pseuds/akasakasan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is used to being ignored. In the bustle of metropolitan life no one notices The Big Issue vendor trying to make a living on the streets. That is, until he met Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John was used to being ignored. Even in a bright red vest, people still averted their eyes, observing but not really seeing him. He wasn’t allowed to cry out or draw attention to the fact that he was selling magazines on the street, but even naked and clucking like a chicken John doubted that anyone would pay him the slightest bit of attention. He had known it was a stupid place to set up shop when he first saw the entrance to the Euston Square tube station. It wasn’t one of the bigger stations by any means but it was still constantly in motion, people hurrying on with their lives and not giving him a second glance. It had seemed like everywhere else was already taken by other vendors, men who had been selling The Big Issue since before John was living on the street. They had snatched up the prime positions, had regular customers who knew them by name and smiled as they walked past. Although the streets were meant to be shared and cooperation between vendors was highly encouraged, no one liked a stranger encroaching on their turf. No matter how friendly you were with someone, if another vendor was getting a sale it meant one less sale for you. And that sale could be the difference between a warm meal in your stomach at the end of your day or going to bed hungry. 

Today marked the third week John had been standing outside Euston Square station and he was about ready to move on and find somewhere else to try selling a few magazines. Public transport had a habit of making people rude and angry and that, combined with the constant rush and bustle of day-to-day life, made making sales tougher than usual. Students listened to their iPods or huddled together in little groups and businessmen were forever attached to their smart phones. He could have been invisible for the amount of notice he was given. John had been working for all of 5 hours now and all he had to show for it was £5. He sighed, defeated and utterly exhausted with his lot in life. John prayed the little cardboard hut he had constructed two nights ago was still standing, he just wanted to go back to his little home and sleep. He’d just have to settle for another night spent ignoring the ravaging hunger pains gnawing away at his stomach. He prayed business would be better tomorrow but experience had taught him not to hope. He’d just have to find another place tomorrow.

Awkwardly balancing on his cane as he struggled to shove the handful of magazines inside his backpack John looked up and saw a man watching him. Tall and thin, shock of curly black hair falling over grey-blue eyes, he was staring at John like he was a puzzle waiting to be solved. That piercing stare should have been unnerving but it was the most attention anyone had paid him since the hospital and John didn’t know how to react. He was about to try sell the stranger a magazine when the man suddenly walked over to him and stopped, looking John over with apparent interest.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” John replied, heart hammering away in his chest. How could this stranger know anything about his military service? Unless, had he somehow recognised the old John Watson under the smidges of dirt that dotted his tanned face and the unkempt beard?

“It’s a simple enough question. Where you injured in Afghanistan or Iraq? No, no matter. I have hardly the time to entertain simpletons with my genius, brilliant though my deductions may be. No, I’m wondering, have you seen an old man walk past you with a pet weasel or a mongoose like creature? He would have been deformed in some way, obvious scarring that would have made him hard to miss. And displaying symptoms of jaundice, although I’m sure I don’t have to explain those to a former doctor.”

John gaped at the man before searching his memory. “No, didn’t see anyone. Any reason?”

The stranger shook his head, looking disappointed. He rummaged around in his coat pockets before pulling out a folded £10 note. He shoved it into John’s hand, who was too startled to decline, before briskly walking off without as much as a goodbye. John unfolded the note, still marvelling at the fact that a complete stranger had given him twice the amount he had made today without even a magazine in return. Inside the note John discovered a small business card, cursive script embossed on a creamy surface. Apparently, the stranger’s name was Sherlock Holmes and he resided at 221B Baker Street. John rubbed a callous thumb over the mobile number and resolved to call the man if he saw the person he had described. 

It was all rather strange though, John thought as he slowly limped his way back to his temporary home. Nothing ever happened in his life. But today it felt like something had changed, some important part of him that had been dormant since his discharge had finally woken up. This stranger, Sherlock, who had appeared for just a few brief seconds in John’s life, felt like his redemption. As John reached the cardboard shelter that was mercifully still intact and standing, he thought that redemption was exactly what he needed.

The next day John went back to his familiar corner in Euston Square station. He smiled as he deposited his rucksack on the floor beside his feet, pulling out a familiar stack of The Big Issue magazines. He smiled as people rushed by him, scanning the crowds for Sherlock Holmes. But Sherlock never came.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been two incredibly long weeks. The weather was getting colder and as each day passed a chill settled in John’s bones, making his leg ache in misery. John had stayed at Euston Square station for five more days, on the lookout for Sherlock. A complete stranger, yet John couldn’t seem to get the stubborn man out of his head. But after five days of people watching John had packed up for the day and gone home only to discover that his little cardboard shelter was gone. His belongings were thankfully safe, housed in the ubiquitous backpack he had purchased after the hospital and guarded more preciously than a maiden did her hope chest.

He had been forced to find somewhere else to stay and in the process he had moved locations, trying to make a bit more money selling magazines. The next edition of The Big Issue was going to be published in a week and John had to rush if he wanted to sell the fifteen magazines he still had left. He had to put the stranger out of his thoughts and get back to work instead of acting like some sort of lovesick fool and starving to death for his troubles.

John’s new spot proved as difficult to find as he had expected but lucrative once he finally managed to get settled and start selling. The Morrisons in Camden was always kept busy, people trickling in and out with bags of groceries at odd hours. Honestly, it was quiet surprising that none of his fellow vendors had snatched the spot up before him. People reacted as they always did, averting their eyes and pretending not to notice him. However, they were usually friendlier than the pushy hoards at the station and John was pleased to find himself making quite a few sales. There was food in his stomach again and some money in his pocket. If only the knowledge that winter was approaching didn’t constantly weigh on his mind then everything would be perfect. Because John didn’t harbour any doubts about the chances of his making it on the streets in the freezing cold.

John was at Morrisons an hour after opening when he saw him. It was luck really, that John was there as early as he was that he had picked that particular Morrisons when looking for a new location to try sell some magazines. For there, walking towards him was an old man. He was sickly and hunched over, with terrific scarring running across his face and down the side of his neck. A small furry head poked out of one of the deep pockets of the man’s coat before disappearing a moment later. The stranger fit Sherlock’s description perfectly and before he had even managed to shuffle his way into Morrisons, John was fishing out Sherlock’s contact details and hurriedly making his way to a nearby payphone. His hands were shaking as he deposited a few coins into the machine and impatiently listened to the dial tone.

“Yes?” Sherlock finally answered, his voice brusque and impatient.

“Hello?” John asked, uncertainly. “You met me a few weeks ago outside Euston Square station and asked me to call you if I noticed a man who fit the description you gave me.”

“Where did you see him?” Sherlock asked, sharp and curious.

“He just walked into Morrisons in Camden and... hello? Hello?”

Sherlock had just hung up on him, without even a goodbye or a thank you. His impression of the man kept getting weirder and weirder. Strangely disheartened, John walked back to his post, holding out the magazines like a shield in front of him. By John’s estimate, not even ten minutes had passed when he saw Sherlock striding towards him, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“You know it’s rude to hang to hang up on people,” John said, smiling.

“What? You’re lecturing me on social niceties when I’m about to solve a crime that has baffled the tiny intellects of London’s finest? Rather, where did he go? Tell me everything.”

John couldn’t help but snort at the all too accurate assessment of London’s coppers. He had dealt with enough of them while on the streets to realise just how biased and unintelligent the police could be on occasion. John found himself both bewildered and utterly amused at Sherlock and his general outlook. He wondered why Sherlock would be solving crimes for the cops and then decided it was probably best not to know. 

John gave Sherlock a brief description of what the man looked like, watching twin spots of colour decorate the man’s cheekbones as he struggled to contain his excitement.

“You’ve found him!” Sherlock exclaimed, rushing into the store without so much as a thank you or a backwards glance at John. 

John stood and stared at his retreating back. Then, shaking his head at his own stupidity, he grabbed his backpack and his cane and followed Sherlock into Morrisons and into the arms of a possible killer.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had led John on a wild goose chase. It was stupid, reckless and utterly pointless. It was also the most alive John had felt in years. They solved the case for the Met with a quick conversation with the old man, a Corporal Wood, who told them what Sherlock apparently already knew; that the ‘murder’ was actually caused by natural circumstances. Sherlock had been increasingly self-satisfied throughout the entire affair, smug smirk firmly in place while John looked on in amazement. He had followed a stranger into a store to confront a man who for all they knew could have been a killer. He was unarmed and a cripple, all his meagre possessions crammed haphazardly in the tattered backpack that hung off his good shoulder. Yet adrenaline pumped through his veins, energy racing down his spine and into his limbs in a way he hadn’t thought he’d ever experience again since he got discharged from Afghanistan. The bitter truth was that if he wasn’t at a warzone, all John could feel was a numbness eating away at his soul. And being around Sherlock was being around danger constantly, as though he was surrounding himself with war and destruction all the time.

Sherlock made a quick phone call on some fancy smart phone to the most frazzled looking detective John had ever seen, who was not thrilled to discover that what he had thought was a murder was actually just nature taking its course. Smugness radiated out of every pore while he explained how he had solved the case while John listened on in rapt attention. When the conversation was over he could still feel his heart palpitating in his chest, the exhilaration making him giddy.

“That was amazing,” John stated.

Sherlock started, as though he had forgotten John was even there. Already the flame of excitement was dying in his eyes and the nervous energy leeched from his body.

“Do you really think so?” Sherlock asked. His voice was soft, almost puzzled, like praise was a foreign and peculiar concept for him.

“Course I do. It was brilliant, absolutely extraordinary.”

Sherlock gave a shy smile. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“Well I’m not most people,” John said, grinning. “So is this really what you do with your time?”

“That’s right. I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I help the Met when their little minds are stuck with cases, which is all the time. I invented the job.”

John could think of nothing better. Sherlock’s mind was obviously incredible but he didn’t need some bum of the streets to tell him what he already knew. The man was probably sick to death of speaking to him already, longing to do extraordinary things instead of wasting his time with boring, ordinary John. Sherlock’s eyes were on him, however, piercing and inquisitive. It was as though they could read every dark thought, see every part of John that he tried to keep hidden away.

It was unnerving.

It was fantastic.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, someone was looking at John and really seeing.

They had slowly been making their way through Morrison’s while they talked, John’s cane clanking on the sticky store floor as they walked. They came to the store entrance where, what felt like a millennia ago, John had been standing and trying to sell magazines. The thought of facing the irritated faces of the privileged hegemony as they pushed past his plaintive attempts to sell them magazines, made him slightly nauseous. The adventure of the last half hour was already starting to seem like a distant, wonderful dream. Like with their previous encounter, Sherlock rummaged through the pockets of his coat. This time however, money was the last thing John wanted.

“Seriously, don’t bother with your charity. I didn’t follow you into the store for your money.”

Sherlock nodded, looking faintly surprised. The thought that he had assumed John had only followed him for his money left a bitter taste in John’s mouth. Just because he was homeless didn’t mean that there wasn’t a person beneath the label.

“Goodbye then,” Sherlock said, turning to walk away.

“If you’re at all wondering my name’s John. It’s just that we haven’t been properly introduced yet,” John called out to him.

Sherlock didn’t turn around. “Goodbye, John,” Sherlock said in a quieter voice before walking away.

For some reason, while staring at Sherlock’s departing back John’s stomach ached and his heart clenched. He was probably just hungry though. It had been hours since he had last eaten.

Later that day, when John opened his backpack to fish out some canned food for lunch, he found £100 tucked into the side pocket where his dog tags were kept hidden away. A reluctant smile crept onto his face before the sheer magnitude of possessing that much money crossed his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

It was steadily getting colder, an icy wind sweeping through London and settling a ubiquitous chill in John’s weary bones. No amount of warm food from soup kitchens made up for the way the cold seeped into his aching flesh. His ruined shoulder acted up in the winter like a sullen child, aching terribly, while knives of hot pain sliced at his leg every chance they got. When he first came back to London his therapist had emphasised that it was all in his head, another symptom of just how screwed up his mind was. However, knowing that the pain in his leg was psychosomatic didn’t make it go away. He could still feel the constant pain and knowing it wasn’t really there didn't make the pain feel any less real.

John had bought himself another fluffy jumper with the money Sherlock had given him, as well as a lovely thick scarf. The charity shop where he had brought his few meagre clothes in was run by an elderly woman named Mrs Hudson, who had taken a shine to John the minute he first walked through the front door. He hated to take advantage of her charity but she assured him that she wouldn’t take even a penny more for the clothing and blankets she sold him. As a result he had a bit of money left over from the money Sherlock had given him, enough to treat himself to a bit of hot food when the cold became unbearable. 

Sherlock still played a prominent role in his thoughts, even though he hadn’t seen him since that day three weeks ago when they solved a case together and Sherlock had walked away. But thoughts of Sherlock weren’t as predominant as the nagging worries that John couldn’t shake. He couldn’t help but fret about what the future held. The winter months had come far too quickly, John didn’t know how he was going to survive on the streets when the temperature would drop even further, and it began to snow. Once upon a time, John had loved the snow. As a child, he would spend his days outside, making snowmen and throwing snowballs at his friends until his parents came to drag him home. That was a long time ago though, before their family had imploded and he ended up living on the streets. Now, the idea of snow was terrifying. This would be his first winter on the streets and John wasn’t certain he would survive it.

John hitched his backpack further up his good shoulder, cane slipping on the icy pavement. It was still fairly early in the evening but it was already dark and by this time John would ordinarily be lying in an alley with his back pressed against a cold brick wall, his ratty blanket tucked over his tattered jacket and shaking shoulders. But tonight John was determined to find somewhere to hole up for the winter. He had spent the last few hours looking for any abandoned building that would serve as a shelter until he was kicked out. He had always been a friendly sort of bloke but he hadn’t managed to make many friends while out on the streets. The homeless took one look at his cane and heavy limp and judged him useless, a small inadequate man in a stained fluffy jumper. They weren’t overly hostile towards him, just ignored him for the most part. John had managed to pick up a few acquaintances over the last few months, mainly fellow Big Issue vendors, and he had gone to them for information. Pete had told him about an abandoned home on Marylebone road, empty for years and practically in peak condition.

So John had sold his last magazine of the day about half an hour ago and after stocking up his food rations, was now slowly making his way down Marylebone, trying to find the house Pete had described to him. He was almost at Baker Street when he saw the house in question. The windows were dark and uninviting, one of them smashed in. Long grass waved in the cold winter breeze and a barbed wire fence had been erected outside the building, although someone had made a large hole in it at the side. John climbed through the narrow gap, his hands grappling at the fence as he slowly made his way into the front yard. The door opened with a little encouragement and John stepped inside. It was the first house he had been in for over a year, since the bullet that had shattered the frail equilibrium of his life. It felt wrong to make himself at home in a stranger’s house but at this point John wasn’t fussy. He wasn’t going to be discordant over a few nights in the warmth; a place he could call home, even if it did just turn out to be for a few brief days.

John’s eyes were far too used to the darkness and it didn’t bother him as he quickly scanned the house for any forms of life before finding the banister to where the bedrooms would usually be. He would explore the house properly tomorrow. For now though, John took his worn blanket out of his raggedy backpack and spread it on the ground. He removed his shoes and with a heavy sigh lay down on the wooden floor, backpack pillowing his head and body huddled beneath his warm blanket that had definitely seen better days. Out of habit, he pressed his back against the wall and in a few moments, John felt his eyes closing. That night, warm for the first time in what felt like years and finally beneath a solid roof, John dreamt of Sherlock. But when he woke up he couldn’t remember his dreams.


	5. Chapter 5

John followed the same path through Regent’s Park every day on his way back to the house. It saved time and the sight of the park, as autumn leaves fell like dying fireflies onto the grass, was a sight that John would never grow tired of. He would sometimes spent time sitting on the dusty park benches and simply watched the world but winter was slowly creeping upon London and sitting outside for too long was quickly becoming intolerable. It was hard enough standing outside all day for work. The new location meant he was finally making enough money to fill his stomach and drown out the ubiquitous hunger pains but no matter how any jumpers he shucked on before a shift the cold soon seeped deep into his bones. It was quickly becoming almost physically painful to get up in the mornings, his bones aching in physical reminder of his age. 

The temperature had been steadily declining all day now and towards the evening John’s breath misted as he tried to sell The Big Issue to the few people willing to brave the weather for groceries. John had spent most of his shift stamping his feet and briskly rubbing his hands together to force his circulation moving but nothing helped. John gave up trying to sell anything at all around 5. It started getting dark and he finally threw the heap of magazines into his backpack and started off in the direction of home.

It had just been a long, disappointing day. The kind of day that made John wish he had some friends left in the world, so they could get drunk and commiserate. However, he had left all his friends behind when he went to Afghanistan and left his army mates behind when he found himself on the streets. Just imagining their pitying glances, the offers for a roof over his head while he got his life back on track, made him feel sick. He didn’t need friends, didn’t need companionship. He had managed so far on his own and he would continue to struggle along alone, without any help. Now if only Sherlock didn’t play such a prominent part in his thoughts. Even in John’s subconscious, the man was obstinate, demanding his attention like a child accustomed to being spoilt rotten. John just couldn’t shake the memories of his brief encounters with Sherlock off. The man was utterly unique, John had never met anyone even remotely like him, and being around him made John feel more alive than he had in what felt like years.

It had rained while John was working and the ground was slippery as he limped through the park on his way home. His cane was useless in the mud and dangled off his arm, making walking a painful, frustrating process. John never did get the hang of doing things the easy way; he really should have just used the footpath like everybody else. He just wanted to go back to ‘his’ house and sleep. Today had been a colossal waste of time. John finally reached the street and paused for a moment to wipe the copious build up of mud from his worn shoes. Finishing he started walking, only to see the tall figure from his dreams tearing towards him, muttering rapidly to himself. Sherlock looked as imposing as ever, his coat practically billowing behind him like some sort of cloak as he strode towards him.

“Sherlock!” John called out, smiling for the first time all day.

Sherlock shook himself out of his thoughts, although he still looked distracted, and looked around before his eyes settled on John’s.

“Are you in the middle of a case?” John asked, finding himself genuinely curious. The case he had helped Sherlock with had been fascinating and John had found himself missing the detective and the brilliant way his mind worked.

“Yes, but my brother put me up to it. Hardly clever work and certainly dull enough to leave my mind rotting with the boredom of it all. I solved it within my first few minutes at the crime scene but Mycroft insists I speak to the maid so I am certain she is the culprit before he has her arrested. As if I am never certain,” Sherlock said, clearly insulted at the very nature of the idea that he could be wrong about something. John couldn’t help but beam fondly.

“Well I’d best not delay you any further then,” John said.

He had forgotten how piercing Sherlock’s gaze was, how those clever eyes could deduce a million truths about him in almost no time at all. John tugged nervously at the fraying sleeves of his jumper, wondering what Sherlock was seeing.

“I can see you’ve had a thoroughly unproductive day. You should look for a proper job, one that puts your skills to use and earns you some actual money in the process.”

“And who’d want to hire me?” John asked, eyes flashing angrily. If Sherlock was just going to laugh at him then he may as well go home and leave the man to whatever foolhardy scheme he was currently involved in.

“Many people would. You don’t believe you deserve a chance so you haven’t even looked,” Sherlock stated, matter-of-factly.

John should have been angry at that. He should have told Sherlock to go to hell and stormed off in a fit of self-righteous fury. But Sherlock was right. John hadn’t even looked for a job in the medical field after he came back. He had returned from the war broken and settled onto the streets without even trying to adapt back into civilian life. So instead, he just nodded at Sherlock, who looked at him speculatively.

“You know, I live nearby and while I don’t usually slow myself down with food and digestion during a case, I’ve already solved this one and Mycroft can wait. I know a good restaurant that’s run by a former client so the food is free. What do you say?”

Which is how John found himself following Sherlock into a quaint little restaurant named Angelo’s while a man who was obviously the owner and a former client of Sherlock’s practically fell over himself to make them comfortable. The restaurant was nice, with cosy wooden tables and a front desk littered with menus and decorated with a dusty glass vase with a murrini pattern. They sat down at one of the tables towards the back off the restaurant and Angelo hurried up to the front desk and snatched up two menus, thrusting them into their unresisting hands. Sherlock ordered without looking at the menu while John dithered at the multitude of options before ordering steak and chips. God he had missed steak. And chips. Just a hot meal, really.

Angelo delivered the meals in no time at all and John tucked in with a pleased sigh and a gusto that spoke of constant hunger. The steak was tender and succulent and the chips were thick and salty. John hadn’t eaten anything warm in what felt like eternity and this was absolute perfection. Sherlock was barely touching his pasta, taking little nibbles while discussing various cases. Every once in a while his phone would sound and Sherlock would quickly look the message over, snort and text back with a speed that left John jealous. Even when he had a mobile phone John could never manage more than a few letters every minute or so. John hadn’t had this much fun since before the war and he had been so sure that he would never have this much fun again. John should have expected that Sherlock would subvert all his expectations. The man was truly extraordinary.


	6. Chapter 6

Stomach full and pleasantly aching, warm and indecently comfortable in his decadent restaurant chair, John felt much too content to ever move again. Sherlock would have to drag him back home because John was certain he wasn’t capable of any movement. Sherlock had barely touched his own pasta, instead appearing perfectly content to talk about his cases and watch John stuff himself full of his delicious meal. And Sherlock hadn’t lied to him; Angelo came out and cleared the plates from their table himself, depositing a large slice of chocolate cake on the table without any mention of a bill. John stared at the slice of cake as though willing his stomach to create the room to accommodate such a lavish dessert.

John reluctantly looked up from the slice of cake and caught Sherlock staring at him, a tender smile decorating his lips. John felt a similar smile grace his lips and the sight of it made Sherlock look away, a faint blush staining his cheeks. John was too old to be feeling this fond sensation in his chest, a tightening band of adoration that made it hard to draw in a breath when Sherlock so much as looked at him. The sensation became infinitely worse when Sherlock suddenly steeled himself and reached a hand out across the table, resting it on John’s. The contrast between Sherlock’s pale, clean hand and its long delicate fingers and John’s large hand, darkened by the sun and lightly freckled, with dirt caked under his nails was startling.

While public showers was thankfully a plentiful commodity, none were particularly near to where John worked, and he hadn’t had the time or the energy to trek to one in the last three days. Cleanliness was a matter of great concern and he always made sure he had enough to afford a shower every few days. Even though public showers weren’t exactly the paradigm of hygiene, they were still better than being unclean. Now though, staring at the difference between their hands, all John felt was a deep sense of shame.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said. He looked surprised at his own words but then visibly steeled himself. “I know what you’re thinking and it doesn’t matter.”

There was something utterly innocent in his wide gaze and John moved his hand so that their fingers intertwined. He felt himself grinning at Sherlock like some sort of mad fool and found that he didn’t care. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, seconds sliding away into the vastness of time and everything besides Sherlock faded away into background noise, nothingness.

It had been the most gruelling year of his life. The war, the pain, the utter tedium of hospitals and the prospect and reality of homelessness had all hit him so fast. He was a changed man; one more bitter, cynical and achingly lonely than he had been a year ago. Slowly Sherlock was changing all that. Leeching away John’s pain inch by fiery inch, leaving John craving for more from their brief contacts. The timing was utterly horrible but that was the story of his life.

Then of course, Sherlock’s phone had to ring and he pulled his hand away from John’s in order to answer it. He listened for a beat before beaming. “Don’t touch anything, I’ll be there in 10,” he said, before abruptly ending the call with a sharp grin. “There’s another body, John! It’s like Christmas has come early.”

His joy was infectious, even if it came with the knowledge that it originated from the discovery of a dead body. Sherlock stood up and shrugged on his coat. It seemed like he was about to leap out the door and rush off to the crime scene without a word to John. Without being able to help himself, John grabbed at Sherlock’s hand, forcing him to stop moving.

“See you soon?” John asked, feeling pathetic but unable not to phrase it as a question.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, smiling.

John let go of his hand and Sherlock shot through the door, racing off to the visit the crime scene. He was certain that by the time he made his way ‘home’ Sherlock would already have solved the case with some incredible deduction. He only wished he could see it.

John asked for the slice of heavenly chocolate cake to be wrapped up for him, not accustomed to and unwilling to waste food. He slipped on his coat and walked out into the cold with a shiver, breath clouding before his face. He was walking in the direction of home, happily humming to himself when the first payphone began to ring. Figuring it was simply another peculiarity in this great city he walked straight past, only to hear it stop ringing after a few more steps. The next payphone he passed began ringing when he was a few feet away and stopped ringing as soon as he hurried past. The next one after that was just downright creepy. He walked up to the phone booth, feeling hesitant. It was probably a coincidence anyway but just in case- he picked up the phone and put it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello Dr Watson,” a deep steady voice answered.

No one had called him that since his army days and John’s shoulder’s tensed up as he nervously scanned the people around him. They all walked casually by, none of them paying him the slightest regard. “Who is this?” he finally asked.

“Let’s just say we have a mutual acquaintance. You will get into the car promptly, Dr Watson. You wouldn’t want me to call Mr. Pearson and inform him that he has a squatter living in that dilapidated shed of his on Marylebone road. Besides, I am ever so curious to meet the man that would accompany Sherlock on cases and join him for dinner.”

With that the dial tone sounded and John stared at the graffitied walls of the phone booth, utterly disconcerted. It figured that Sherlock would associate with people just as odd and unnerving as he himself is. He walked out of the phone booth just as a sleek black car glided up to the curb near John. One of the doors opened and he could see a woman typing away busily into her phone inside. With a sigh, John walked up to the car and climbed inside, slamming the door shut behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

The car pulled up to a warehouse and John gratefully limped out. The woman sitting beside him had ignored any of his attempts to start a conversation, besides providing him with what was obviously a fake name. She had spent the entire car ride busily tapping away at her blackberry, long nails clicking in a tempo against the keypad. John examined the dim warehouse warily, squinting into the shadows. Suddenly, the overhead lights came on with a loud clap and dead in the centre of the room stood a tall man in a suit that looked like it cost more money than John had ever had at one time. He was leaning on a plain black umbrella while his sharp dark eyes looked John over critically. 

“Hello, Dr John Watson,” he said, sneering. The cadence of his voice hinted at a childhood spent in some posh boarding school for wealthy brats and John found himself intensely disliking the man on sight. 

“And you are?” John asked, his body slipping into a casual military stance.

“Let’s just say I’m a concerned party. What is your involvement with Mr Sherlock Holmes?” 

“I have no involvement with Sherlock. I helped him out and in turn he felt sorry for me and took me out for a bite,” John muttered, growing irritated. This empty suit with an overinflated sense of his own importance was making him grind his teeth in annoyance. If he thought he could bully John around he was going to be in for a surprise. John had served in the army and drill captains could chew this pompous snob up and spit him back out without batting an eye.

The man smiled and gestured for John to take a seat in the chair to his side. “Please Doctor, you should take a seat. I’d hate for you to tire yourself out.”

John’s hand clenched tighter on his cane and his stiff smile faded. “Is that why your goons had me brought here? So you can ask me inane questions about Sherlock? Because if so I’m going to be off. Plenty to do and all.  
”  
“Such as work? Where exactly is it that you work?” the man asked, smirking as he pulled out a thin manila folder from the inside of his coat. He opened it up and appeared to read its contents intently. “It says here since that little incident in Afghanistan and your discharge you’ve been living on the streets like a common urchin. Or rather, you were living on the streets until you moved into that lovely little house on Marylebone. Mr Tom Pearson will be very interested to discover that he’s got a guest living on his property. I’m sure you are quite aware that squatting is illegal, after all. You haven’t searched for a proper job since you came back, well unless you count selling that street magazine of yours a proper job. Do you count it as a proper job, Doctor Watson?”

He could feel himself blushing, absolutely humiliated at everything the man had read. But beneath the abject humiliation he could feel anger burning through his restraint. Not for the first time since he had come back to this city he had once called home, John longed for a gun. His fingers twitched absently by his side, a movement that the man obviously noticed. Some of the smirk left the man’s face, as though he had finally remembered that John was trained to kill.

“Where did you get all of that information about me?” John asked, shifting around and trying to keep weight of his bad leg, which had started acting up again as though it sensed John’s mood.

“I hold a minor position in the government, one that grants me access to all sorts of fascinating information. You’re an interesting man, Doctor Watson. A soldier turned vagrant, surviving on petty cash from those magazines. A doctor who follows Sherlock on cases and accompanies him out to dinner. You’re just interesting enough to attract my attention and so I’ll make this worth your while. If you stay away from any further interaction with Sherlock Holmes I’ll give you enough money so that you can give up selling those magazines. Enough money that you can move into your own place, have your own bed and a warm shower, enough money for as much food as you’d like. Are we in agreement, Doctor Watson?”

John didn’t even stop to think about it. His brief interactions with Sherlock had been like snatches of light in the darkness and hopelessness that had become his life. He wasn’t going to go back to living in the dark, even if it meant his own house and all the material goods he could ever require. “No thank you. Now if that’s all, I’m going to be off,” John said flippantly, turning towards the car that had driven him here and preparing to leave.

“You’re not even a little tempted?” the man asked, grimacing. His fingers had tightened on the umbrella, the knuckles whitening on the handle of his umbrella.   
“No I’m really not,” John said without turning around.

“You should know, Doctor, that I worry about Sherlock. _Constantly_. He doesn’t have any friends and he certainly doesn’t go out to dinner with complete strangers. So be advised that if you are, shall we say, an unsavoury influence on him, I will know about it. And there will be no where on Earth that you’ll be able to run.”

John shuddered. The man may not look particularly threatening but John was certain that if he harmed Sherlock retribution would be swift and dire.

“Now if you get into the car the driver will drop you off where you are currently living. Good day,” the man said.

As John walked away he could feel the man’s eyes on him. Taking a deep fortifying breathe John got back into the car. He was suddenly glad to be back here with the woman who was still tapping away at her blackberry, not even looking him in the eye. As long as it wasn’t out there with that man, whose identity John remained unaware of. What had Sherlock gotten him into?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently in the process of uploading stories that I've written from LJ to AO3. At the moment this is the last written chapter of 'Say a Prayer'. As such, updates are going to be much less frequent then previously but I'll aim to post at least a chapter a week.

A week had passed and John couldn’t get stop thinking about Sherlock’s slim fingers interlaced with his. It was childish to spend so much time thinking about that one simple caress but if John was acting like a teenage girl then so be it. It had been far too long since anyone had even looked at him, let alone touched him with so gently, with care. And for it to be someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes, a man who was so meticulous about what he chose to occupy that amazing brain of his. For John, it felt like a dream come true. With those thoughts so firmly entrenched in his mind and still feeling Sherlock’s gentle touch on his hand, John wandered into an internet café and connected with the outside world for the first time since he had been released from hospital, broken and alone.

The first person he messaged was Harry. Despite their problems she was still his baby sister and she deserved better than total silence from him for all this time. He asked if she wanted to catch up, scared that she would reject his attempts at reconciliation. After wasting time and answering a few messages from friends he had served with, asking to meet up and wondering how he was, he finally bit the bullet and opened up a blank document. Watching the curser flicker he took a deep breath and started writing his resume. It was time to get himself out of this mess that he had made of his life.

As days went by John became a frequent visitor at the Internet café, the owner smiling and greeting him by name. His ever-present backpack, filled to the brim with all his worldly possessions, was enough of a give away and after initially keeping a wary lookout she had warmed up to him when she saw that he wasn’t doing any harm. Every day John huddled behind a computer screen, blessedly away from the chill outside while desperately sending off resumes by the dozen. So far he had received a few rejections but a Dr. Sawyer had contacted him yesterday and asked if he could come in for an interview. She sounded eager to meet him and friendly which was perfect. Sending her a polite acceptance letter John then leant back on his chair and wondered how he was going to pull this off.

John had carefully saved up the money left over from Sherlock’s £100 ‘gift’. There wasn’t much of it left now but he might just scavenge up enough to be able to buy something a little decent to wear to tomorrow’s interview. Paying the money he owed for using the computer, John swung his backpack over his good shoulder and then hobbled his way to the charity shop Mrs Hudson owned. The homeless were almost always met with hostility when walking into stores, particularly those that sold clothing, but she had been so friendly last time that John knew she would help him find something smart but cheap to wear. Indeed, Mrs Hudson beamed when he walked into the shop.

“John, thank goodness! I’ve been hoping to see you again; it’s so cold out on the streets at night that I’ve been worrying about you,” she said.

“I’ve been good, Mrs Hudson. I found somewhere to hole up and wait out the winter and I’ve been job hunting. I’ve got an interview coming up and I was actually hoping to find something to wear for it,” John said.

Mrs Hudson beamed at him. “Oh I’m so happy for you. Let’s get you dolled up and ready to go out into the working world.” 

After half an hour of Mrs Hudson flitting over him John was exhausted and sore but also the proud owner of a nice beige jumper and a new pair of dark denim jeans. While paying for his purchase’s John caught his reflection in the mirror behind the register and rubbed a hand thoughtfully through his scruffy beard.

“Mrs Hudson, do you happen to know any good hairdressers in the nearby area? Somewhere fairly cheap?”

She looked him over thoughtfully before making her mind up. “If you care to wait fifteen minutes while I close up shop for the day, I can cut your hair for you at my home. I used to do my husband’s all the time.”

In the face of such generosity John couldn’t help but agree. He helped Mrs Hudson close the store and they slowly made their way through the darkening streets of London. As they walked, Mrs Hudson regaled him with stories about her previous travels, about how she had brought the charity shop on a whim, bored with sitting at home all day and doing nothing but cleaning and watching bad telly. John knew the hypnotic appeal of terrible telly all too well, remembering lying in that hospital bed and watching endless soaps. Mrs Hudson led him to Baker Street, into a lovely townhouse where she lived on the bottom floor. John sat down at the kitchen table while she went to her bathroom to collect scissors. She cut up some papaya from a fruit bowl that was practically brimming over with the funny looking fruit and then placed on apron on him and some newspaper on the floor before going to work on his hair, chatting away all the while.

“Help yourself to some papaya, dear. I’ve been eating tons of them since Mrs Richards, she lives across the road from me, told me that it would help me lose a few extra pounds of that stubborn winter weight. I went to the shops and brought practically a crate of the nasty things but they haven’t helped a bit and I’m awfully sick of them at this point.”  
John politely helped himself to a slice, listening to the soothing sound of her voice and the snipping of the scissors as she attacked the tangled mess that was his hair. She finished quickly before handing him an electric razor and instructions to rid his face of his god forsaken scraggly beard and then shower so she could see the final product. John luxuriated in the blessed heat of the shower before soaping off the dirt and stray clumps of hair from his skin. He climbed out of the shower and stared at his reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror while he dried off. It was strange how, with his face clean-shaven and his hair cut short, he almost looked like his old self again. It was almost as if his one bullet hadn’t torn through his shoulder and ruined his life in the space of a few solitary seconds. 

John hurriedly dried himself off and threw on his clothes, not wanting to take advantage of Mrs Hudson’s already extraordinary generosity. As he excited the bathroom he could hear a man’s voice talking quickly and Mrs Hudson laughing in response. So when he walked into the kitchen and saw Sherlock of all people standing there, John didn’t quite know how to respond. And naturally Sherlock, ever calm and collected as always simply smiled, as if he was expected.

“Hello John.”


	9. Chapter 9

John stood in the middle of the hallway, utterly confused while his still damp hair dripped gently onto Mrs Hudson’s carpet. He hadn’t seen Sherlock in over a week, since their dinner date. Even though the memory of Sherlock’s slim fingers interlocking with his had been playing in his mind all week, John wasn’t sure it was even technically a date. John had been meaning to meet up with Sherlock after his job interview, showing off the fact that he was finally moving forward with his life. However, standing before the man now John felt silly and ashamed, like a teenager that had been caught in flagrante delicto by his parents. Sherlock’s expression was unreadable as he looked at him and suddenly John felt an urgent need to run and hide from Sherlock’s knowing gaze.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” he asked instead, desperate to hurry this along and get going.

“I live here,” Sherlock replied, grinning with amusement. 

John thought of the business card that Sherlock had given them when they first met and realised why Mrs Hudson’s address had seemed familiar. He looked around the kitchen, noticing the cleanliness, the ceramic teapots and little ornamental cats that decorated the windowsill.

“It’s nice. Not really where I imagined you living but it’s a very nice place,” John murmured, feeling uncomfortable. 

This time Sherlock burst out laughing. “Not literally here,” he responded. “I live upstairs. Mrs Hudson is my landlady and housekeeper.”

“I’m not your housekeeper,” came the grumpy retort. It sounded like an argument that had been going on for a while.

Standing in the kitchen with his friends John felt… too comfortable. Like they would suddenly both realise that he was pathetic, a failure who couldn’t even sort his own life out. John wanted to flee before they realised that he didn’t fit in with them, that he was just an outsider jealously looking in.

“Well, I’d better be going. Thank you so much for all your help, Mrs Hudson,” John said, going over to pick up his backpack and the bag of clothing he had brought. He rummaged through his pockets for money to pay for the haircut but she gently slapped his hand away, tsking at him.

“Don’t even think about, John Watson. Just come back tomorrow and let me know how the interview went,” she scolded.

“Of course the interview will be a success, Mrs Hudson. If anything, John is overqualified for the job and they would be lucky to have him,” Sherlock said.

John stared at him in surprise, smiling gently. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock walked him out, closing the front door gently behind them.

“I’ve heard you suffered the unfortunate pleasure of meeting my older brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock stated.

“I have?”

“The man who kidnapped you? He told me about your conversation afterwards but you really should have just split the money. We both know you could have used it and we could have split it between us.”

John stared at him, speechless. Of course it was Sherlock’s brother. Who else could have been such a bloody pompous git.

“Did he tell you that he warned me away from you because I was a bad influence? That utter prat insulted me right to my face and then had the nerve to offer me payment to stop seeing you. And now you tell me he’s your brother.”

“Why didn’t you take the money?” Sherlock asked, his voice suddenly low and serious.

“Because I like you, you enormous dolt. Why else would I keep spending time with you?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He was busy staring at John, his eyes narrowed in thought.

“John, I would like to propose an idea to you. I find myself bored and restless when I live alone. Furthermore, my job does not provide a regular income and I am struggling to pay the rent required to remain at Baker Street. I do not want this offer to come across as charity, because that is certainly not the case. I would like you to consider becoming my flatmate. You would easily afford it once you get this job and perhaps you could even assist me with cases on your days off.”

John had never heard Sherlock utter so many words at one time and he stared at the man, considering the situation. It was so tempting to move in with him, to share in his adventures and finally have his own room with a proper bed to sleep in. But what if John ruined everything? Sherlock was his first friend since he left the army and he was so scared of doing something to ruin it. He noticed that Sherlock looked almost worried in anticipation of John's response and that was a scary thought. He so desperately did not want to ruin what they had.

“I’ll have a think about it if my interview goes well,” John said, turning to leave. He had reached the front gate when Sherlock called back to him.

“Please consider it, John.”

John didn’t reply and kept walking.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the second to last chapter. I might post an epilogue, depending on whether or not people are happy with the ending. And definitely a few stand alone pieces when I start to miss writing in this verse.

John was surprised at how well the interview went. Dr Sarah Sawyer was polite and friendly and immediately put his mind at ease. She seemed bewildered that someone like him was even interested in working for her, given that she apparently believed that he was overqualified for the position. Sherlock, as always, had been right when he said that the minute John applied for jobs he would be snapped up. John had spent so long thinking that he was unemployable and broken that it seemed inconceivable at the time. Now John was faced with the possibility of a fantastic job and a shiny new future. Sarah was also incredibly attractive, something John pretended not to notice as they discussed the details of his potential employment. She didn’t ask about the cane or how it would affect his employment. She didn’t ask any awkward questions about the war or whether his injury was related to that. She was utterly professional which made him respect her more. Half an hour later they shook hands and he was employed for the first time since he left Afghanistan.

John wandered around the street in a daze. When John came back to London he felt like a stranger in a giant, unfamiliar city. The bustling streets felt alien to him and the crowds of people made him uncomfortable. They all pressed too close, jostling him with pointy elbows or heavy bags. Everything looked and felt different even though logically John knew that he was the one who had changed. 

His feet were taking him back to the abandoned house where he had been staying during the winter. The thought of staying somewhere warm, comfortable and safe was overwhelming. John had forgotten what it was like to wake up in a bed, snuggled under blankets and resting his head on a soft pillow. It seemed like a faraway dream, a fairytale lived by royalty instead of a liberty that ordinary people took for granted. John was tired of living like that. He thought of the boarded up windows and the permanent cold draft that was simply inescapable no matter what room he moved to. And he thought about the sleeping bag lying in a dusty corner of the house beside a pile of Big Issue papers that he had brought with his last few pounds. He passed the house and kept walking, turning into Baker Street and stopping at a familiar house. Taking a deep nervous breath he knocked on the door.

Seconds later footsteps could be heard pounding down the stairs before the door swung open.

“What do you know about the healing qualities of drusy quartz?” Sherlock answered in lieu of a greeting.

“Absolutely nothing,” John replied cheerily. 

“I am certain that it is all rubbish but a client has been insisting that her knife wound was healed by the mystical properties of drusy quartz and so now I’m forced to fill my head with pseudo-scientific nonsense involving chakras and spiritual planes. Clearly a waste of my precious time, even if she is paying well.”

John just beamed up at him, too happy to even focus on Sherlock’s new interest of the day.

“I’d actually like to take you up on your offer,” John stated, inexplicably nervous. What if Sherlock didn’t mean what he had said? What if he had asked simply because he felt sorry for John and now that John had accepted he would retract the offer?

Sherlock’s blue eyes immediately flew to John’s face, staring at him contemplatively.

“You got the job,” he said as though that was so obvious it wasn’t even worthy of discussing. 

Sherlock’s blind faith in him made John want to grab Sherlock and kiss him until all though deserted that massive brain. Instead, John just grinned at him stupidly and nodded.

“That’s not surprising. I believe I have already informed you multiple times that you are more than suited for any job you apply for. They are lucky to have you. However, we should continue this conversation inside. Mrs Hudson has informed me it is rude to conduct conversation by the door and while I have never seen a purpose behind social convention in this case I would like to show you your new living arrangements.”

With that Sherlock turned around and walked inside, certain that John would follow him. He went up a set of stairs and opened the door to 221B while John made his slow ascent up the stairs. The apartment they entered was cluttered with papers, empty mugs and various beakers and test tubes filled with multicoloured liquids. The wallpaper was hideous and covered with scratches and what looked like several bullet holes. A human skull rested on the mantelpiece while a knife pinned down a teetering stack of unopened mail. Sherlock collapsed back on the couch, resuming fiddling with a hunk of what must be druz quartz. A small pile of them lay on the floor beside the couch.

It was exactly how John pictured Sherlock would live. He wandered around, poking at various items while he pictured himself calling this place home. Having a home.

Then he sat down on the couch beside Sherlock, suddenly exhausted. It was all too much. Nothing good ever happened to him. And yet lately too many good things had happened. John felt like suddenly everything would go terribly wrong all at once and now that he had something to lose it would be all the harder. Breathing became harder and the wallpaper blurred before his eyes. 

“When can I move in?” John gasped out. This was it.

Sherlock looked over at him and smiled. “Today would be convenient.”

Half an hour later John was walking back to Baker Street, his rucksack swinging over his good shoulder. His pile of Big Issue magazines lay where he had left them, in the dust of his past life.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the last chapter for 'Say a Prayer'. Thank you for all your kind comments, I seriously appreciate all the support you've given me for this story.

Living with Sherlock was better than John could have imagined. The sheer comfort and security of having his own room and sleeping in a bed was a novelty that still hadn’t worn off. The first night in his new home John couldn’t sleep. Even with Sherlock puttering around downstairs it was still too quiet, too soft and warm for it to feel real. John was afraid that if he closed his eyes he would open them to find it had all been a dream, that he was still living on the streets with hunger ravaging his stomach while the bitter cold crept into his bones. When exhaustion finally hit him and he fell asleep John slept like the dead. When he woke up it was to find that he had slept for sixteen hours, the sheets tangled around his body like bandages. He had showered until the water turned cold, scrubbing off what felt like years of dirt and grime and leaning back against the tiled walls and soaking in the heat. After he had dried and brushed his hair and shaved John looked at himself in the mirror. The face looking back at him was more wrinkled than he remembered, cheekbones prominent in his gaunt face and his blue eyes looking older and sadder than they had been before the war. However, he was slowly starting to resemble his old self. It would just take time.

The nightmares started on the second night. Memories of the war, of being shot and lying in an unfamiliar hospital with no one to visit him plagued him every time he closed his eyes. The screams of dying men, his hands slick with their blood as he tried desperately to save their lives, would haunt him in his dreams. While John was on the streets he was so full of adrenaline that he never dreamed, passing out every time he found a safe place to sleep for the night. Now that he was safe all the suppressed nightmares came flooding back. Some nights John would tug on a dressing gown and come downstairs, curling up on the couch and listening to Sherlock mutter to himself as he performed experiments or play the violin. John would close his eyes and the brilliance of Sherlock would drown out the nightmares and keep him safe. On those nights he would sleep calmly till morning and wake up to find Sherlock vanished.

Now that he looked more like his old self John found time to see Harry. They met at a little café near his flat and she had hugged him and cried. John had expected to be reprimanded, angry lectures on how he was a failure of a brother who was so pathetic he couldn’t even manage to look after himself properly. Instead she had smiled at him and held his hand while he recounted his story, interjecting every so often with questions and the occasional sniffle. Looking at her tear stained cheeks made John realise just how much he had missed her. She was his only remaining family in the world and he had spent the last year letting her down. When they parted ways he grabbed her number, promising to call her when he got a mobile phone. It had been so good to see her again. 

Sherlock gave him space, allowing him to recuperate at his own time. He was on another case, something that involved copies of Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings which were now sprawled over every available item of furniture. Sherlock was a constant, ever moving force. His clients would appear at odd hours of the day, asking his help with a variety of some of the oddest problems John had ever heard. John would go to work and return home to discover that Sherlock had solved three cases in the space of several hours and was collapsed in a sulk on the couch because he was bored solid. He was constantly complaining that no good new cases had come in for months but John wasn’t sure what that meant considering that Sherlock constantly busied himself with various cases. Regardless, Sherlock still found ways of keeping himself occupied.

Slowly they fell into a sense of routine and John started feeling at home. He had a home now and the thought slowly became one of immense joy, not an abstract concept that John’s mind struggled to comprehend. Spending time with Sherlock as well was constantly a blessing. They hadn’t discussed their first date although sometimes John felt like the air was almost sparking with tension. He thought about it often but he was scared of mentioning it and spoiling what they currently had. Sometimes John felt like Sherlock was the key to his salvation and that without him none of his new life would have worked out. He would do what he had to in order to maintain this peaceful level of coexistence that they shared.

They would go out to eat whenever they both had the time, Sherlock picking quality restaurants based solely on the state of their doormats and doorhandles. John spent his pay checks on buying quality ingredients and cooking, enjoying the reprieve from the canned foods that he had survived on for so long. He would come home after work and borrow Sherlock’s computer, searching for recipes that he hadn’t tried yet. Before the war he had never enjoyed cooking, preferring takeaway or frozen meals. However, now that he had access to a kitchen cooking was something he found himself deriving serious pleasure out of eating something healthy that he had cooked with his own hands. Naturally Sherlock thought that he was mad but accepted it with a fond smile. John would cook for the both of them, bullying Sherlock into eating when he showed signs of forgetting. It was hard to imagine how the man had functioned by himself for all those years if he would forget such basic things as eating and sleeping. Sherlock seemed to enjoy everything that John cooked though, even if he did grumble about how eating slowed down his thought process or some similar nonsense.

It was early Tuesday morning when John ambled into the kitchen to make breakfast. Today was his day off and he was planning on being horrendously lazy, lounging around and watching as much horrible television as he possibly could. Mrs Hudson would often join him on such days, enjoying his company. John had a feeling that she was often a little lonely by herself downstairs and he would often join her for scones and tea while she recounted stories. John was just sitting down and about to dig into his scrambled eggs when the doorbell rang and the heavy tread of a man’s footsteps could be heard climbing up the stairs to their flat. Sherlock was already bounding down the stairs and racing to the door, as excited as John had ever seen him. He swung the door open to reveal a handsome man with silver hair, his fist raised as though he had just been about to knock.

“There’s been another one!” Sherlock stated.

The man nodded, looking serious. “Can you come?” he asked.

Sherlock was already shrugging on his coat. “Yes, but not in a police car. You go ahead and I’ll follow.”

With that they both vanished out the door, Sherlock slamming it behind him.

John went back to his scrambled eggs, utterly confused by what had just happened. He had never seen the other man before so god only knows where Sherlock was running off to. He was just about to take another mouthful when the door swung open again.

“You’re a doctor. In fact you were an army doctor,” Sherlock stated, a calculating gleam in his eyes.

“Yes,” John stated, unsure of where this was going.

“You’ve seen a lot of horrible things in your time. Faced a lot of trouble and seen numerous terrible injuries and violence.”

“Yes. You know I have.”

Sherlock was practically bouncing as he spoke, a radiant smile on his face. “Well, would you like to see some more?”

“Oh, God yes,” John responded, rising unsteadily to his feet.

He limped over to get his coat and turned around to find Sherlock holding his cane out, beaming. He walked over to grab his cane when suddenly Sherlock wrapped an arm around him and pulled him in for a kiss. It was fleeting, Sherlock pulling away within a moment but it was fantastic, everything John had been dreaming about since their date. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock smiling at him gently, still bouncing in excitement at the prospect of a case.

“Come on John, we’ve got a case to solve,” he exclaimed, grabbing John by the hand and rushing them both down the stairs.

John followed him into the cold, London brimming with life around him. As he tumbled into the taxi beside Sherlock, John felt that he was finally home. He looked over at Sherlock and smiled.


End file.
